It was just another Tuesday afternoon. I was walking home from the grocery store with my eight-year-old son, Ben, bags in hand, while he skipped beside me, chatting about everything and nothing at all.
Halfway home, we passed a police officer standing by his cruiser, talking to a pedestrian. Out of nowhere, Ben tugged on my sleeve and asked, “Mama, can I ask him something?”
I assumed he wanted to see the patrol car or maybe talk about the uniform. So I said yes.
But instead of asking about the lights or the badge, Ben walked straight up to the officer and, with surprising confidence, said, “Excuse me, sir… can I pray for you?”
The officer blinked — clearly surprised. He looked at me for permission. I nodded, stunned but curious.
Without hesitation, the officer got down on one knee right there on the sidewalk.
Ben gently placed his hand on the officer’s shoulder, closed his eyes, and began to pray:
“Dear God, please keep him safe today. Please don’t make him hurt anyone. And when he goes home tonight, help him remember that he’s still a good person.”
I couldn’t breathe.
My throat tightened. My chest ached. Tears welled up before I could stop them.
We hadn’t had any deep conversations about police — not really. But I remembered the moment it must have started. A few weeks earlier, I turned off the news too late. A violent story flashed on screen before I could change the channel. I thought Ben wasn’t paying attention.
He was.
When Ben finished, the officer stood slowly, eyes glistening. He thanked my son like it meant more than words could say.
As we walked home, Ben finally spoke again.
He looked up at me and quietly asked…
👇 What happened next will stay with me forever.